


smudge proof

by seabear



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Making Out, i'm just out here trying to live my best life, idk man this is just 2k of Oikawa putting on red lipstick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-11 02:46:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10453227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seabear/pseuds/seabear
Summary: Oikawa puts on red lipstick. That's it. That's the fic.





	

It was the red his sister never wore, perched on her vanity, never leaving it’s spot even after she moved out last summer. It stood, a pillar seemingly holding up an entire history of a room, and whenever Tooru passed by her open bedroom door his eyes caught on it, a black bullet of a tube in a washed out teenage world. A room at war with itself, childhood frills and stuffed animals combating rock band posters and piles of what their mom called “loud clothing,” all stuffed into one space with incongruent textbooks and the mecha action figures she’d spent painstaking hours assembling herself.

Her bedroom growing up had always been Off Limits, and glimpses of it were coveted, ever changing each time he managed a peek. It was cool, it was big kid stuff, and Tooru--with his chubby fisted hands and his alien pajamas--wasn’t allowed in that world. A world where sister fluctuated from wildly popular to solitary, from soft to edgy, back around again and again like she couldn’t ever choose one thing. “You’re lucky you have Hajime-kun,” she’d told him once, a rare instance he’d been permitted to sit at her desk while she painted her toenails at the edge of her bed. She’d fanned at the glossy black with a notebook, the burn of it’s smell filling the entire room. “Friends like that are hard to come by.” 

She made and remade herself, she tried on personalities like outfits, and she could fit in almost anywhere, talk to almost anyone. She could be terrible, his tormentor in tennis shoes and skinny jeans, and a day later she would spend hours in their backyard helping him pitch a tent for them to camp out in, dirt on her bare knees and plastic butterfly clips in her hair. But it always came back to the lipstick.

He’d seen her pouting into her vanity mirror with it on a few times, but it never made it through the doorway, always ending up folded into crumpled tissues in her wastepaper basket. As much as she’d loved infuriating their mother with her loud music and loud clothes and loud friends, the red never made an appearance outside of her world. He was sure his mom, a perpetual snoop who’d raised absolute hell when she’d found condoms in his sister’s sock drawer, had seen the lipstick. But either she hadn’t cared (unlikely), or Tooru just hadn’t been around for the fallout. 

So it sat, and sat, and when she moved out after graduating from university it still sat with some other forgotten glosses, a powder compact with the center worn away, some soft looking brushes in a heart shaped jar, and tubes of model glue for her action figures that would come in pieces in boxes, something he never understood. “Why do you pay for something that comes broken?” he’d asked her. 

“So I can make it however I want,” she’d answered, not even looking up at him. “Now get out of my room. You smell like BO.”

He didn’t get it, then, but that was before he realized you could only change so much about yourself. 

 

He wanted a marker. That was it. A black sharpie so he could write his name on the strap of his new sports bag, because in the club room if you didn’t clearly label your stuff it would just get absorbed into someone else’s without either of you realizing. But halfway through rummaging about in her desk drawers, he lifted his gaze and there was only one thing he could see.

“Tooru?” mom’s voice lifted from the bottom of the stairs. “Tooru, we need to go!”

“Coming!” he shouted back, face hot with the sensation of being caught, and without even thinking, without even trying not to, his hand snatched the tube up and stuffed it deep into his pocket.

 

For the rest of the day, he felt it, that weight in his pocket like lead. However he moved, however he stood still, no matter who he saw or what he did it burned low at the back of his mind, his hands finding their way to his pockets more than they usually did. He would grip it, feel the touch-warm metal, run his thumb along the cap over and over. He was gripped with fear in the middle of the supermarket at least twice that today would be the day his sister would come back for it. He made eye contact with some guy on the street, dark eyes, dark hair, and a wrecking ball of a thought burst through him, _he knows, he knows, he knows._

It felt like every minute he was brushing a hand over the slight bump pressing through his jeans, just to check that it hadn’t fallen out. He was guilty. He was ridiculous. He was, unbelievably, turned on by the weight of it against his thigh, knowing it was there when no one else did, knowing what he wanted to do with it. What he was going to do with it when his parents left later that day, to visit his aunt and her new baby. They were staying overnight. “Iwaizumi-kun is allowed over,” his mom said over the rumble of the television, “but that’s it. The neighbors will be watching.”

She meant well. She did. She probably wouldn’t let Iwa-chan over if she knew the truth. That when Iwa-chan slept over they shared more than a bed. That when they walked to school every morning, they’d make a game out of letting their hands bump and catch. That whether Tooru was being a good son, a captain, a little brother, a top student--he was always, constantly being Hajime’s. They didn’t use the word boyfriends yet. And Iwa-chan would murder him if Tooru ever called them something as embarrassing as lovers. But they belonged to each other in small ways. In inches of skin over low waistbands, in shared cans of soda passed between them on his back patio, in heaving sighs with exasperated smiles to compliment the, _yeah, yeah, I guess I really like you._

The lipstick was something distinctly other, in that it didn’t touch those other parts of his life. It didn’t touch Iwa-chan. It stood alone, unright, and that was probably part of the reason Tooru was so taken with it.

Mom kissed him on the cheek and pushed his hair out of his face, his dad already waiting in the car for her. “Be good, lock the doors at night, don’t stay up too late, feed the cat, call Toda-san if you need something.” On and on.

 _Creak-click,_ went the front door, and Tooru scrambled into the bathroom, heart pounding, body light but blood heavier, hotter, louder. He was shaking as he placed it against the counter, and practically yelped out loud when he heard a loud ringtone from the kitchen, his phone going off with an influx of texts. He steadied a hand over his chest, telling himself to breath.

He’d worn chapstick before, and he liked the way it made his lips all glossy and slick, habitually smacking them, licking away the flavors. This was different, obviously. He turned the tube over, and realized for the first time there was a sticker on the bottom, and that the color had a name-- _Ladies Night Out._ He uncapped the top, revealing shiny gold underneath the black, and he twisted it slowly. First all the way, then back down until only part of the lipstick was out. It was practically unused, a few swipes having word the tip down just barely. Red. Not dark, not bright. A true, uncompromising red.

He inhaled, lungs met with a waxy vanilla smell. Then his eyes went back to his reflection, fingers against the slight stubble along his chin. Should he shave first? Was he supposed to start with the bottom or top? Was lip liner absolutely necessary? What the hell did he think he was doing?

Putting it on was actually harder than he thought it would be. He supposed the bottom lip turned out alright, but he couldn’t get the two sides of his top lip to look totally even. Not when his blood was pumping in time with his rapidfire heart, hands shaking, bones thrilled. This is as good as it’s gonna get, he finally thought, pressing his lips together and letting them go with an audible pop.

His mouth, which had always been full and pillowy, seemed bigger. He felt himself push it out more, almost pouting, lips heavy. He smacked them a few more times, not sure how he felt about the thick, paint like feeling. Not too terrible, he thought, messing with his bangs, leaning closer.

“Yo, learn to answer your damn phone--”

Tooru’s head snapped to the side, eyes burning from straining so wide as they took in Iwa-chan at the bathroom door, frozen in place, jaw dropped.

“You--it’s not--” Tooru fumbled. “Iwa--”

Hajime backed him up against the sink, pressing the full length of their bodies together and leaning in with a slice of movement, his hands suddenly on either side of Tooru’s head, in his hair, yanking him forward. Iwa-chan didn’t just kiss him--he devoured him, pauseless and exhaustive, tongue moving ruthlessly between twists, between biting and sucking at Tooru’s buzzing lips. Everything tasted like that vanilla wax. Everything tasted red.

Tooru finally turned his head away to breathe, huge gulping breaths, arms shaking at they held his weight up against the sink. He didn’t find himself again until a hand was at his jaw, a thumb pressing against the swell of his mouth, smearing. Tooru, feeling electric, parted his lips and sucked Iwa-chan’s thumb into his mouth, laving at the whorl of a fingerprint he was so sure he could memorize in that cramped overheated space, still damp from his shower earlier.

"Shit," Iwa-chan hissed. _"Shit,_ that's so hot."

He sucked, popping off and loving that explicit sound before pressing a gentle kiss to the curve between index and thumb. The lower half of Iwa-chan’s face was covered in red. It looked bloody, violent to compliment his wild, glassy eyes that unblinkingly stared. Tooru finally said, the words so heavy they clunked through the air and hit the floor between them. “You’ve got it all over you.”

Iwa-chan’s gaze flickered, just slightly. “Look who’s talking.”

Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, the previously pristine Ladies Night Out had blown up on his mouth, like a gash. A broken sound escaped him, and his knees almost buckled, but Iwa-chan was still pressed against him, keeping him up.

His mom kept makeup remover wipes under the sink, and Tooru used the side of one for himself, and the other side on Hajime.

Sometime during this, Iwa-chan found the lipstick on the side of the sink. It looked so odd in his large hand, hair on his knuckles, dry and calloused and--Tooru swallowed, watching Iwa-chan twist it up.

“Let me put it on you,” he said.

Tooru snorted, but his hips canted forward. “Pervert.”

He was clumsier than Tooru had been, and it was a overlined mess, but neither of them minded. He kissed Iwa-chan’s cheek, his chin, his jaw, his throat until the red wouldn’t transfer anymore. Then Iwa-chan put it on him again, their breathing heavy, neither trying to hide how turned on they were, pressed up against each other. There were no real secrets between them. Bright red, possessive lipstick stains dotted Hajime’s face and neck. Tooru wanted to put them everywhere. They were at That Point. The point where they could either back away and let cool air settle over them, or fumble over the edge. He could do this for hours, he thought, putting lipstick on and having Iwa-chan kiss it off of him, even though his mouth was already throbbing and swollen.

There was a clicking sound, and heads whipped around just in time to see the lipstick tube rolling towards the open bathroom door. The air broke, a blurry revere turning crystalline. 

“We’re a mess,” Iwa-chan laughed. Tooru blinked, and reached for the wipes again. Even with all his scrubbing, their faces were left stained slightly pink. Tooru didn’t know if they were supposed to talk about this, if there was even anything to talk about. But it felt weighty, and different, presented to them as most things at seventeen were--inexplicable, formless, nameless, aching. The horrible, swooping pull that came with it, with the fear of not knowing what to do with it, the fear of having it at all, the fear of losing it before they could figure anything out.

When Hajime kissed him again, it was the bitter soapy twinge of the makeup remover. But the more they kissed, the more it faded, until the only taste left was salty skin. “We should order something,” was the first thing Tooru said, breaking away. “Let’s get pizza.”

“No anchovies.”

“Anchovies on half!”

“If even one anchovy is in that box, it’ll make the whole thing taste like fish. No anchovies.” He moved back, away, and stooped to pick up the lipstick. He held it out to Tooru, blank faced.

“You…” Tooru tried, taking it back with careful fingers. “Is it weird?”

“I mean.” Iwa-cha rubbed at the back of his neck, looking down. “I dunno.”

Tooru swallowed. There was a dent in the cap from where it’d hit the tile. 

“But even if it is, I mean, I clearly liked it too,” Iwa-chan said, and then, after a pause his eyes flickered back up, gaze met. “A lot.”

Tooru’s big, monstrous seventeen-year-old heart skipped a beat. 

“And it’s definitely not the weirdest thing about you.” Iwa-chan's hands went into his pockets as he stepped backwards to move out of the bathroom. “The fact that you like anchovies and pineapple on pizza-- _that’s_ fucking weird as hell.”

“So it’s _my_ fault you’re boring and only like cheese and pepperoni?”

“Hey, I like sausage, too.” He stopped walking backwards, back hitting the door frame.

Tooru leered, grabbing at hips through camo shorts. “Yeah, I know.”

“Don’t be gross.” Iwa-chan flicked his nose, grinning.

Tooru shoved the hand away, but found his own wrapping around it, keeping it and tugging it to his chest as he said, “You love how gross I am.”

 

/end.

**Author's Note:**

> i know fanfic by definition is self-indulgent but dang...i clearly need to calm down...
> 
> you can find me on tumblr at [chillnaxin](http://chillnaxin.tumblr.com/)


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